


Snow and Curry

by Nifflers_n_nargles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Annoying Habits, Draco in a Strop, Forced Proximity, M/M, Singing off Key, Transfigured joggers that don’t hide anything, Yoga, auror mission gone awry, electric boobs, mild angst that could be resolved with a conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-30 23:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17233022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nifflers_n_nargles/pseuds/Nifflers_n_nargles
Summary: It had been 64 hours since the skull-rattling roar quieted and the walls ceased their fevered shaking. Sixty-four hours since the windows were obscured with sheets of white so dense it looked black. Sixty four hours since they realized a mountain full of snow had trapped them in this godforsaken cabin just outside the popular Muggle resort they were meant to be casing. Sixty-four hours since Draco’s worst nightmare was realized, and he was ready to pull his perfectly coiffed hair out of his skull if Potter didn’t stop pacing the hardwoods.





	Snow and Curry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [semperfiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/gifts).



> Semperfiona, when your name appearing in my inbox to pinch-hit for I was over the moon! Your podfics are a delight and I hope I created something you’ll enjoy. 
> 
> Massive thanks to Chris, Fanny, & Sophie for your endless cheerleading, ideas, and input. Thanks to the mods for all their hard work, this fest is a delight! Apologies for all the authorial smut-baiting, time ran short on me and these boys were not cooperative!

It had been 64 hours since the skull-rattling roar quieted and the walls ceased their fevered shaking. Sixty-four hours since the windows were obscured with sheets of white so dense it looked black. Sixty four hours since they realized a mountain full of snow had trapped them in this godforsaken cabin just outside the popular Muggle resort they were meant to be casing. Sixty-four hours since Draco’s worst nightmare was realized, and he was ready to pull his perfectly coiffed hair out of his skull if Potter didn’t stop pacing the hardwoods. 

The pacing had started the night before, hour 49 to be precise—which Draco always was—when then enchanted parchment they had been using to communicate with Idiot HQ had stopped responding to their queries. Now their fate was left to Head Idiot Weasel and his, admittedly much smarter, wife to figure out how to get them out of a foreign country they’re not supposed to be executing missions in, from the hovel they now found themselves trapped in, while investigating the aforementioned foreign country’s top diplomat and her highly illicit extracurricular activities that were dragging down their Ministry in the process. 

“Would you stop that,” Draco snaps glaring at Potter as if they were back in second year. 

“What would you prefer I do, Draco?” Potter asks simply. His use of Draco’s given name unsettles Draco every time he uses it despite Draco’s mulish use of Potter’s surname. 

“Nothing,” Draco glares at him, willing the man into stillness. “I would prefer you to do nothing. You’re wearing the floors uneven and doing my head in.” 

“You know I’m no good at that,” Potter sighs, running a hand through the disaster atop his head, and looking around a bit like a lost crup.

“Well, pretend you’re good at it,” Draco huffs. 

Potter grimaces but says nothing then, mercifully, he sinks into the armchair closest to the fire. Draco gives a silent thanks to Merlin, Morganna, Salazar and anyone else who had a hand in saving his sanity—and hair—then turns back to his sheaf of parchment covered in tiny writing. If they are going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future, the least they can do is review the intel they have gathered, looking for connections they had previously missed. 

Five minutes into his review Draco looks up, for what feels like the 30th time, to give Potter another of his patented Malfoy sneers. The man can’t even go five minutes without making himself a distraction. 

“Really, Potty, you’re worse than a child.”

Potter gapes at him. “I’m not doing anything!”

“Your incessant foot tapping is making it impossible for me to focus,” Draco retorts, petulantly.

Potter pins him with a hard glare. “Really? I can’t even move my foot now? I know you’re not happy to be ‘stuck’ here with me, you’ve made that perfectly clear over the past few days, but this is just ridiculous!”

Draco’s face is a mask but inwardly he cringes, he never wanted to be on the receiving end of that glare again; he had seen it quite enough at school. Maybe Potter did have a point though, Draco had been especially short with him on this mission. First there had been the fiasco with the undrinkable tea-flavored-sugar the day they arrived. Potter had mumbled something about “needing the calories,” when Draco interrogated him about his tea drinking habits. The next few days had been fine, they were working the mission, following up on leads and taking turns observing their suspect. That all changed the night of the earthquake. 

They were meant to dine that night with the suspected buyer, a man by the name of Tibbs, who Draco had “befriended” while waiting to rent ski gear. When the avalanche hit, just as they were getting ready to depart for the lodge restaurant, Draco had enough sense to cast a _Protego Maxima_ and shout for Potter to do the same before their little cabin was decimated by the hurtling snow. Exhausted from holding the spell, Potter attempted to make them dinner using the emergency rations Weasel had given them before they departed. The curry Potter had made was spiced hotter than the surface of the sun and had destroyed Draco’s taste buds quite effectively. Granted, Potter had been trying to distract them from the fact that they were trapped with no exit plan in sight and they were most certainly missing out on what would have been a very informative dinner, but Draco didn’t allow that to stop him from making his displeasure known. 

A day in Draco had wanted to strangle Potter, the man could not sit still. The exact thing that made him such a good Auror, his seemingly endless energy, quick reflexes, and skill with a wand, made him Draco’s absolute nightmare as they were trapped in captivity. Whether he was casting spells to try and free them from their snow prison, aggressively scratching his quill across the enchanted parchment harassing the Weasel for information about their plans for a rescue, or puttering around finding little jobs for himself to do, he always seemed to be underfoot and in Draco’s way, and dammit if he didn’t smell incredible every single time he passed Draco. It was infuriating. 

There had also been all of Draco’s disdainful looks at Potter’s head, with its horrific mop that Potter thought passed for a hairstyle, and his feet where Draco was subjected to his insistence on wearing mismatched socks that clashed horrendously with each other and whatever he was wearing. 

When Draco doesn’t respond, Potter continues, “You knew you were going to be partnered with me for this mission, if you didn’t want to be around me you should have turned it down. We could have brought in another consultant.”

Draco lets out another long-suffering sigh and Potter rolls his eyes. Finally, he concedes, “Maybe I have been a bit short with you Potter. Let’s just blame it on cabin fever and try to put it behind us. It’s frustrating being stuck here when we have a job to do.” 

“Alright, Draco. How about we go over the case notes together, then we can do something active to burn off some of this energy?” Potter suggests.

Draco quirks an eyebrow at the phrasing and agrees. After 40 minutes of discussing the case and dissecting every little detail they are no closer to figuring out the supply train or how to bring down their suspect, but they are getting along much better. Draco had forgotten the glint in Harry’s eyes when he was chasing down a lead, his brow furrowed in concentration, and teeth gently pulling on his plump lower lip. It's more than a little distracting.

“That’s it,” Harry exclaims, pushing the parchment across the table. “I’ve had it with this, we’ve been talking in circles and we’re getting nowhere. It’s time to take a break.”

Draco drops his head into his arms and nods. “Please distract me from our epic failure right now, Potter.”

“Harry,” he corrects Draco for not the first time. 

“Alright, _Harry_ , you said you wanted to do something active?”

Draco does not like the look in Potter’s eye at that question.

Twenty minutes later, clad in transfigured joggers and a thin t-shirt, Draco is puffing in a way that feels distinctly un-Malfoy-ish as Potter leads him through a series of flowing poses. 

“I thought this was supposed to be relaxing,” Draco grumbles under his breath. 

Potter lets out a breathy laugh, “It is Draco, but only if you don’t fight the poses. You have to breathe into them.”

“What the buggering fuck does that even mean?” Draco exclaims, collapsing to the floor in a fit of drama, breathing hard. 

Potter continues the poses, unperturbed by Draco’s stream of complaints. Draco observes him as he moves, the muscles in his arms and back rippling under the threadbare shirt that left very little to the imagination. When he lifts his arms above his head and leans back slightly, Draco is treated to a glimpse at tan skin stretched taut over a lean but powerful torso. He bites his lip and takes a deep breath, he can’t seem to steady his breathing despite being seated for several minutes. 

When Potter lunges forward, legs spread wide and bends over— _how does he do that?_ —Draco is treated to a front row view of Potter’s perfectly toned arse. He stifles a groan, not wanting to draw attention to himself or cause Potter to straighten up any sooner than he means to. 

“Did you say something Draco?” Harry asks, looking at Draco upside down. 

“Nothing, Potter,” Draco stammers, looking away.

“Harry,” he chides again. 

“Nothing, _Harry_ ,” Draco parrots softly. 

When Potter changes positions again, leaning over his other leg now, Draco gets another view of the rounded globes Harry has the nerve to carry around with him. Visions of kneading them pop unbidden into Draco’s mind as he feels the fabric of his concerningly-thin joggers begin to strain. Draco presses his palm against the rapidly growing bulge and adjusts his position on the floor to shield his half-hard cock from Harry. 

This goes on for the next half hour, Harry’s poses becoming increasingly more complex, and impressive, while Draco watches as his situation becomes ever more precarious, but unable to excuse himself without Harry spotting his raging hard-on. 

Finally Harry centers himself back on the mat and closes his eyes. Draco, seizing his opportunity, jumps up from his place on the floor and races into the kitchen and out of Harry’s line of vision. Through a combination of deep breathing, some deeply uncomfortable imaginings, and sheer willpower, Draco’s erection subsides enough for him to be able to move around the cabin again. Filling two glasses with water, he walks back into the sitting room and hands Harry a glass, fingers brushing in the process. The touch is almost too much for Draco who turns his back abruptly willing his cock into submission. 

“Erm, I’m going to shower,” Harry says to his back. Draco gives a quick nod, willing the image of him naked with water glistening on those brilliant muscles to vacate his brain and relinquish its impact on his body. 

Once Draco hears the whoosh of the tap, he palms himself again, the friction and pressure feeling delicious after the torture that was the last hour of his life. Draco begins frantically stroking himself, when he hears a horribly off-key voice floating out from behind the closed door to the bathroom. 

__**Hey kids, shake your money maker  
** The spotlight's hitting something  
That's been known to change the weather  
We'll kill the something something tonight 

Draco rolls his eyes, hand still around his cock. Of course the fool wouldn’t know all the words to the song he was attempting to sing. The next few lines were mumbled, clearly Harry was doing a spectacular job at remembering the words. Draco turned his attention back to the task at hand when Harry started shouting the next few lines,

 __ **She's got electric boobs a something zoo  
** You know I read it in a magazine  
B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets.

“ _Electric boobs?_ ”Draco inquires to himself and releases his cock, mood effectively ruined with Potter’s abysmal singing. He transfigures the joggers he was wearing back into the sturdier trousers he had put on that morning; trousers that effectively concealed his now-wilting erection. Listening to the man you’re begrudgingly attracted to sing about breasts has a funny way of doing that. 

Attempting to distract himself from Potter’s interest in breasts, Draco goes about setting the sitting room right. With the sofa and armchair back in their places and the empty drinks glasses set in the sink, Draco looks around for something else to do. He walks back over to the table with all their case notes strewn about and on a whim, rummaged through the pile until he found the enchanted parchment. He hadn’t checked on in in quite some time. 

Irritated to see that nothing new had been written he snatched up a quill and dashed off a note to the Head Idiot himself, 

**Weasel, It's been 17 hours with no news. When are you going to remove your head from your arse and free us from this hovel. The accommodations are poor and the company even worse. If you value your life you will respond within the hour.**

“Ron isn’t going to take too kindly to that,” Potter says with a gentle laugh. 

Draco’s head snaps up, surprised to see him standing there, he hadn’t noticed the singing had stopped. He is so overwhelmed with the smell of frankincense and cedarwood and something distinctly Potter that he almost forgets that he’s irritated with the man. 

Draco sniffs, “What do I care as long as he gets us the fuck out of here already?”

“Oh,” Potter sighs, “I don’t think it's so bad.”

“That’s because you don’t have to listen to some Neanderthal sing about _electric boobs_. Sounds kinky Potter. I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”

“Harry,” he says automatically. “And I’m not? It's just a song.”

“Interesting choice then,” Draco sneers. 

“Those aren’t even the real lyrics. They’re a joke.” Harry bites at his bottom lip, clearly upset by the scene he has stumbled into.

Draco’s eyes fixate on Harry’s mouth. That sinful mouth that spat out the offending lyrics so easily. He had been distracted more than once by the thought of what he would like to do to that mouth in the last sixty-something hours. 

“Draco,” Harry starts, “what did you think I meant singing those lyrics?”

Draco looks away, realizing that his strop was unwarranted, and refuses to answer. 

Harry allows Draco to sit in awkward silence for a few moments before Gryffindoring on, “I’m definitely not interested in ‘electric boobs.’ To be more specific, I’m not really interested in any boobs.” He takes a step closer, placing his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Draco turns his face up, gray eyes searching green. After a long moment he seems to find what he was looking for. Grasping Harry by the collar, Draco pulls him down into a searing kiss that manages to dissipate all of the tension and frustration of the last sixty-seven hours. Off-balance and unprepared, Harry falls over, taking Draco down with him, the pair of them landing in a heap upon the floor. 

“Glad you got that out of your system now,” Harry asks cheekily. 

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco snips, kissing him fiercely before Harry has the chance to correct him again.

On the table above them, the parchment began to fill with writing. The Aurors had finally come up with their rescue plan.


End file.
